Stanhope. I am very much obliged to you but I am engaged for all the evening, to-morrow; first at Cardinal Albani’s; and then to sup at the Venetian Embassadress’s.
Englishman. How the devil can you like being always with these foreigners? I never go amongst them, with all their formalities and ceremonies. I am never easy in company with them, and I don’t know why, but I am ashamed.
Stanhope. I am neither ashamed nor afraid; I am very easy with them; they are very easy with me; I get the language, and I see their characters, by conversing with them; and that is what we are sent abroad for. Is it not?
Englishman. I hate your modest women’s company; your women of fashion, as they call ’em. I don’t know what to say to them, for my part.
Stanhope. Have you ever conversed with them?
Englishman. No, I never conversed with them; but I have been sometimes in their company, though much against my will.
Stanhope. But at least they have done you no hurt; which is, probably, more than you can say of the women you do converse with.
Englishman. That’s true, I own; but for all that, I would rather keep company with my surgeon half the year, than with your women of fashion the year round.
Stanhope. Tastes are different, you know, and every man follows his own.
Englishman. That’s true; but thine’s a devilish odd one, Stanhope. All morning with thy dry-nurse; all the evening in formal fine company; and all day long afraid of old Daddy in England. Thou art a queer fellow, and I am afraid there’s nothing to be made of thee.